


Just Like Broken Glass to Me

by acciomediumdrip



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Blangst, Cutting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, new york klaine, self injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 11:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2545157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acciomediumdrip/pseuds/acciomediumdrip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine knows how to hide things, he's meticulous in his caution. Until he slips up, and Kurt confronts him about his secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Like Broken Glass to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the awesome [mailroomorder](www.mailroomorder.tumblr.com) for betaing!
> 
> This was inspired by [bpotd prompt #901](http://blangstpromptoftheday.tumblr.com/post/97217737033/prompt-901-by-anonymous), but diverts from it quite a bit. 
> 
> Title from Northern Downpour, Panic at the Disco. 
> 
>  
> 
> **TW: graphic depiction of cutting**

_Blaine 5:00 pm_

There is a box under their bed that most of the time Blaine is able to pretend doesn’t exist. It’s tucked out of sight, nearly buried in the dark underbelly of out-of-season shoes and piles of ancient flyers and programs and Playbills. It’s more than ‘out of sight, out of mind’; if no one can see it, not even Blaine, then it’s not really there. Its not really a problem at all.

But then sometimes Blaine’s entire world turns on its axis and revolves around that box. In the tunnel vision of panic it is the only thing that exists.

Today is one of those days.

Blaine comes home from class itching out of his clothes, hot under his collar, hot all over. Flushed with shame and jealousy and the whispering horror story of his own self-consciousness, making him analyze every move, explore every avenue of possible shortcomings - all to the pounding background of _not good enough not good enough not good enough._

Blaine slams the door, shutting himself in the bedroom, even though he doesn’t need to- he and Kurt have an apartment alone together and he knows Kurt won’t be home for hours. But it feels good to have one more barrier between himself and the world outside.

Blaine sits on their bed, like sitting on a dike will help keep the water from rushing over in a flood. Drags his journal out from under the mattress and pretends like that’ll be enough. He gives himself a page to get his feelings out. A blur of angry, confused words that only a small part of him knows is an overreaction, pen flying across the page in a messy scrawl that Blaine can barely recognize as his own. He tells himself one page, then he’ll be calm and the urge will pass.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Blaine hurls the journal across the room like a toddler in a tantrum. Rakes his hand through his hair where sweat is breaking up his gel, plucks open the buttons on his collar to scratch at his overheated neck. He feels like he’s jumping out of his skin, a ball of nervous energy with nowhere to go. He’s going to rip himself apart from the inside out if he doesn’t do something.

He knows exactly what to do.

His knees shake as he staggers to the bathroom, grabs a handful of tissues and a towel, just in case. Rips his shirt off and falls to his knees, hand groping under the bed until his fingers find the infernal little box. His pants come off next because he’s smart enough not to do it anywhere that will show, lays the towel out on the bed.

Then he’s fumbling with the little plastic dispenser cube, fingers shaking in earnest and he’s not sure if it's anticipation or dread, can never quite tell. He finally gets some friction against the slim piece of metal and thumbs it through the little open slot, his sweaty fingers leaving fingerprints on the metal.

He doesn’t bother with antiseptic, he doesn’t go that deep, he’s always been obsessive about avoiding scars.

Kurt had noticed the fine white lines anyway, not even a month after they’d started being intimate. Blaine had shrugged them off, said something about it being a long time ago. Kurt had hugged him and made him promise to ask for help if he ever needed it. And Blaine had nodded, almost managing to believe it himself, that the whole thing was all merely a curious leftover scar from his past.

He’ll rub everything down with Neosporin later. For now, all he cares about is feeling like he can rest for a second in his own body.

The new blade slices effortlessly through the skin on his thigh. There’s a bright sharp pain and Blaine blinks in awe at the clean, empty slice for the second it takes for blood to bubble up into the seam.

After that Blaine doesn’t pause- cuts neat little rows, left to right, up his thigh, so he doesn’t rub his wrist through the blood. Intoxicated by the sharp bursts of pain, the destruction of that clean sweep of skin. The last row is a bit longer and a little deeper as the first row starts to burn and smart uncomfortably. Blaine swears he can feel the blade tearing harder at his skin like its already lost some of its bright new sharpness and it makes him dig in harder, longer, before the full extent of the damage has time to catch up with him.

When he’s had enough, Blaine struggles to jam the blade into the discard slot on the other end of the plastic case, finally managing to the get the thing to slide away where it belongs and dropping the whole cube onto the nightstand.

Blaine leans back to watch with wide eyes as the little beads of blood swell and spill over onto his skin. His thigh is burning up with heat, radiating off his skin, and the sharp jolts of fresh cuts have started to turn to a hard, insistent throb, demanding his attention. He feels wondrously sorry for himself all of a sudden, and the indulgence of self-pity and loathsomeness is almost as good as the high of all that red.

Blaine wipes up the blood with the tissues when it starts to spill down the side of his leg. It’s a lot, even without going deep, and he’s impatient now to get cleaned up. Theres a growing seed of shame now that the deed is done, and the sight of blood is more hassle than awe-inducing.  Blaine is anxious to have the evidence covered up. To suffer his dizzying pain with the marks hidden.

It’s the damning truth that he feels exponentially better than he did when he walked in the door.  It beats back the shame just enough that Blaine doesn’t bother to try and tell himself that this was the last time. It can’t really be a problem if he knows not to take it too far.

Blaine is bored out of his mind before scabbing slows the blood enough that he can bandage up the worst of the cuts and get dressed again. He still has plenty of time before Kurt comes home but he doesn’t want to cut it close.

The towel isn’t bloody so it can go in the hamper, the tissues get stuck in their own plastic bag then buried in the bottom of the trash. The box goes back into the depths under the bed. Blaine scans the bed and nightstand, nods that everything is in place, and shuts the door.

 

_Kurt 3:00 pm_

 

Reeve is waiting outside the Drama Center building when Kurt gets out of class, shuffling his feet about in that awkward way of someone trying to kill time without being obvious about it. He notices Kurt immediately and skips over to him in his ridiculous ambling gait, all easy smile and shy hunched shoulders.

“Kurt, hey.” He’s got his long fingers scraping through his mess of blonde hair- can never keep them still. “You hear about that brawl last night in Practice Room C?”

Kurt cracks up at the ridiculousness of that opener and wonders how long Reeve has been waiting for Kurt just to unleash this anecdote on him.  Reeve’s better than anyone at turning the never-ending flow of NYADA drama into hilarious sound bytes and Kurt’s always happy to lend an ear to the latest gossip.

Kurt had met Reeve several months ago at the start of his junior year when the lanky, occasionally mischievous sophomore had chosen to share a table with him and therefore landed himself as Kurt’s semester-long project partner for Fundamentals of Improvisation, of all things.  

They could have had a perfectly easy, if superficial, friendship based solely on sharing NYADA gossip. That is, if Reeve hadn’t started crushing on Kurt and seen fit to flirt, somewhat relentlessly, every time they saw each other.

At least, it certainly always _seems_ like flirting.

But Reeve knows Kurt is engaged- respects that he is in a relationship.

Reeve even made an effort, once, to befriend Blaine. It couldn't be entirely Reeve’s fault that it was nothing short of a terrific failure and came very close to ruining the Musical Department’s Fall Gala.

But later, when Blaine brings up the strained introductions and the way Reeve’s hand seemed to find its way to Kurt’s arm more than was strictly necessary, Kurt assures him he and Reeve are just friends and that “that’s just the way Reeve is,” and Blaine gives every indication of totally _getting_ it.

Kurt just kind of accepts the fact that the three of them in the same room will always be awkward.

 So Kurt spends Fundamentals of Improvisation laughing at Reeve’s whispered commentary and ignoring the irrational fear he has whenever they meet outside of class that Blaine will be upset upon finding them together. He then wavers constantly between wondering if it would be pandering to Blaine’s sensitivity to just stop seeing Reeve, or if Reeve is stepping out of line and Kurt should just cut things off, or if everyone is spending just a little too much time over-thinking a harmless friendship.

Reeve stays at Kurt’s side through the whole walk to the little on-campus coffee shop. Kurt’s early for his and Blaine’s afternoon caffeine pick me up, so he lingers by the door chatting with Reeve to kill a few extra minutes. Kurt’s torn the whole time between wishing Reeve would just go already and wanting to soak up his company. Wanting to spare Blaine the awkwardness of having to greet Reeve and wondering if catering to Blaine is just feeding his irrationality. _Is_ Blaine irrational when it comes to Reeve? 

And Kurt just really needs to stop thinking about this. He’s lost the thread of conversation when suddenly Reeve cuts into his never ending back-and-forth.

 “Hey, isn’t that your fiance?”

Kurt jerks to face where Reeve is pointing, a blush rushing up his neck as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn't. If that isn’t a red flag, Kurt’s not sure what is.

Sure enough Blaine has snagged his favorite table by the opposite window. Reeve waves his hand wildly even though Blaine is staring straight at them, has clearly been watching them for several minutes, his mouth drawn in a tight line and his hand tight around his coffee cup.

Kurt curses under his breath which earns him a raised eyebrow from Reeve. Kurt shakes his head in apology, mutters a quick goodbye, and hurries inside.

Kurt greets Blaine with a question about his day and doesn’t mention Reeve at all. When Blaine seems somewhat stiff and and undone all through their meeting, Kurt makes a silent promise to himself to end things with Reeve before anything has a chance to get worse.

  


_Kurt 7:00 pm_

 

There’s nothing so much as a hint to signal that Blaine is anything but absolutely happy and content that evening. There’s a simple but delicious dinner already on the table when Kurt gets home, and when he fawns over Blaine’s effort Blaine waves it away with an offhand comment about how much he loves to fiddle around in the kitchen. Blaine chats animatedly about his day and engages Kurt about his own. The whole evening passes by for Kurt like a warm whirl- the kind of day that you dream about when you picture your life as you really want it.

 

_Blaine 7:00 pm_

 

Blaine is fine.

He really is.

He hasn’t thought about Reeve once since Kurt’s gotten home, hasn’t pictured Reeve leaning in towards Kurt on the stoop of the coffee shop, Kurt hanging onto his every word and then the pair of them cracking up, reminding Blaine of the handful of time’s he’s seen them chum it up at house parties and campus events. Blaine feeling like an outsider even while he stands beside them.  Watching from the sideline while he tries to rationalize his way out of the voice in his head that’s telling him to be careful, that Reeve is _better_ and Kurt will notice and there’s nothing Blaine can do to make himself good enough.

But Kurt is _here_ , happy and with him and Blaine can _almost_ laugh off the degree to which seeing Reeve flirt with Kurt had gotten to him. 

Blaine is also exhausted, and very aware of the fact that his throbbing leg is covered in betraying flaring-red cuts. Keen to slip into sweats and curl up in bed feeling sorry for himself before Kurt has even cracked a book for homework, Blaine kisses Kurt on the cheek and plays the early class card. 

Blaine doesn’t quite make it to bed.

He’s towel drying his hair, stepping out of bathroom still shirtless but with his sweat pants most definitely on when the world spins itself upside down. 

Kurt is standing in the corner of their bedroom, his face white and terrified, Blaine’s journal held open in his hands.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to read it…”

 Blaine doesn’t think. Rips the journal out of Kurt’s hand like he can undo the damage and throws it in a dresser drawer like he can make it go away just by getting it out of open sight.

“Blaine…”

“Don’t.” Blaine says coldly, and he means it. His face is burning with the fierceness of his shame and he wants nothing more than to never, ever talk about whatever Kurt had read. Blaine ruffles through a drawer for a t shirt, pulls it over his head in jerky movements and pretends he doesn’t notice the way Kurt is staring at him, equal parts hurt, shock, and anger.

“There’s things in there…” Kurt’s voice wobbles like he’s about to cry and Blaine feels something break inside.

“Kurt, don’t,” a note of warning still in his voice but he’s quickly losing whatever thread of calmness he might have possessed.

“Blaine, are you c-cutting, again?” 

“Its nothing,” Blaine shakes his head dismissively, pacing a line down the length of their of room and coming up with nothing to keep himself busy, his thoughts too scattered to come up with a single thing to distract him, to keep up this charade that everything is still as it should be.

“Blaine!”

Blaine stills, forces his hands still at his sides and turns slowly to face Kurt. He can hardly bear to look at Kurt, to see the pain on his face, eyes threatening tears and a breath away from falling apart.

There’s a lump in Blaine’s throat and he feels like he could just break down and sob.

And then there’s just anger. “What do you want me to say?” Blaine bites out.

Kurt flinches at the outburst, his mouth falling open in hurt, “I- I- I don’t want you to _say_ anything, I want you to ask for help. I want you to know you don’t have to deal with everything on your own. I want you to talk to me when you think I’m flirting with a _‘better version of you.’_ Kurt finishes in a rush, waving the journal in front of Blaine’s face. The words sting, landing like sparks on Blaine’s skin. Bitter and accusatory and all the more painful because Kurt is _right._

 Blaine shudders. “God, you have no idea what its like do you? To doubt yourself, those things in that fucking book, I know it’s not rational, that’s not even how I really feel. It’s just like this thing inside of me, this monster of doubt begging to be dealt with,” Blaine gets out in a tumble of words, he feels something close to manic, wants to laugh and cry at the same time, but he just ploughs on. “It doesn’t make sense, its not the kind of thing I can just be ‘oh hey Kurt so I’m insanely jealous of that new friend you’re making why don’t you just never see anyone except me ever again so I don’t have to deal with any of my crazy insecurities.’ I _know_ it’s fucked up.”

The silence that follows is ringing.

Kurt looks _exhausted_ , and maybe just a little bit guilty.

“I don’t _care_ about Reeve, I’ll stop seeing him, delete his number.”

Blaine feels a curl of bitter satisfaction, and then he’s just twice as miserable for making Kurt wonder if he’s stepped out of line when he so, so hasn’t.

“I would never ask you to do that, and that’s not the point. God, I don’t care about Reeve! I want you to be able to make friends with guys without thinking I’m going to lose my shit.” 

“Reeve can be...overly flirtatious, you’re not crazy.” Kurt says calmly.

 “It doesn’t matter,” Blaine mutters. Because it doesn’t, Blaine trusts Kurt. He doesn’t quite trust himself. “I trust you.”

There’s a pause and Blaine entertains a wild thought that the argument is over, that things can just go back to normal, everything brushed under the rug like so much old news.

Kurt nods, once, softly, but when he looks at Blaine again his head is titled to the side and Blaine can see the wheels spinning, knows exactly what is coming next. Kurt will never let this go, not without trying to _fix_ this. “How often do you cut?” Kurt asks, quiet and subdued.

 “It’s not a problem.”

“How often, Blaine?” Kurt’s emotion-wracked voice grows even, more determined. Kurt isn’t letting this go and Blaine can’t quite get his brain to function right to carry this through to the logical conclusion, everything is spinning out of control too fast and the only thing he knows for certain is that everything is fine, everything _has to be fine._  

“Not that often.”

“Did you cut today?” Kurt’s voice breaks, but his back is straight, unmoving, the full force of his fiery personality expressing itself in those over-bright eyes, sparkled over with tears and begging Blaine to give him something, to just work with him.

“A bit.” Hardly worth mentioning, barely anything at all really.

Kurt crumbles in on himself and lets out a harsh breath.

 “Where is it? Where’s the blade?” and Kurt like this, caught on the edge of calm determination and unbridled pain is another whole kind of pain that Blaine can’t even process right now.

“We’re not doing this,” Blaine mutters desperately, he just needs this to not be happening, needs for it all to go away, back to normal. “This isn’t happening,” he snaps like he can speak the words and have it be so. 

“If it’s not a problem then you’ll quit. Please Blaine. I can’t- I can’t stand it. We’ll get rid of it all and we’ll get you a psychologist.” Kurt is falling apart, Blaine can see him tipping towards desperation 

“Jesus Christ, Kurt I’m not an addict. I don’t have a disorder. People smoke and run themselves into exhaustion and drink themselves into oblivion every weekend, are a few little scrapes all that different, is it really enough to have some kind of crises over?”

“There’s stuff in that book, about, about, ‘releasing everything in the pain, watching the blood color my skin! ‘That’s not healthy. There’s no shame in it, you just- need to talk to someone.” 

Blaine growls, actually growls in frustration and emotional exhaustion, turns his back on Kurt and throws himself down on the floor beside their bed, flinging boxes haphazardly out of the way to get at the box he had buried out of sight. Blaine brings the box out into the light with trembling fingers, pulling the cube out and holding it in his palm for Kurt to see before hurling it into the trash bin where it falls with a heavy thud.

“There. I don’t need them. I’ll quit, if it means that much to you.”

Kurt looks calmer again, more collected than he has since Blaine came out of the shower and everything turned upside down. Kurt’s messaging the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, letting his thoughts calm him.

“You can’t quit for me,” Kurt says slowly, “you need to quit for yourself.” 

Kurt fishes the plastic case out of the trash bin and places it back in Blaine’s palm. “Just, when you’re ready? Promise me you’ll tell me. And I’ll be here for you, for anything you need. You don’t have to let something like this control you, not even a little.” Kurt kisses Blaine on the cheek, pulls away slowly, fingers tracing down the cotton of his shirtsleeves. He pauses with his hand on the open door just long enough to give Blaine a sad, encouraging smile. But he doesn’t linger long enough to give Blaine a chance to mutter another excuse. 

Kurt’s kiss burns on Blaine’s skin and the plastic and metal feels heavy in his palm while the throbbing in his leg aches on. The stillness in the room feels suffocating.

Blaine dares to take a look at the turmoil in the dark recesses of his mind, for just a moment, before slamming the door shut on it. He can’t- won’t- go there. Not today.

 Blaine takes the journal out of the drawer, rips it in two down the flimsy glued spine and lets the pieces fall into the trash. Out of sight out of mind.

The blades get shoved back in their box and tucked into the very back of the cabinet under the bathroom sink. A new hiding place.

As soon as it's out of sight again, Blaine is convincing himself that nothing is wrong.

Not really.

 


End file.
